This bothers me–but maybe it shouldn’t

Today is my brother’s birthday.

Before you say “And we care about this because…?” I’ll tell you.

My mom posted on Facebook a photo montage of my brother and some really sappy words saying how proud she was of the man, husband–yes, the Lord of Lassitude finally married the lady he gave that ring to a couple years back–and father he’s become.

Yeah, let that sink in for a minute.

Yes, this is the Lord of Lassitude we’re talking about. The guy who has four kids by three women. The guy who can’t keep a job and blames the fact that he can’t on his possession of black skin. The guy who expects the world to hand him a living on a platter and gets mad when he has to actually–ugh–work.

This is the guy my mother is being all sappy and gushy on Facebook about.

What I’m wondering is: where was *my* gushy Facebook birthday post, Mother? Where were your probably tearful and sappy words talking about how proud you are of me and the fact that I’m holding down a job and a household and have been doing both–with no help from you or anyone else–for a year now? Where are the words about how you’re proud of me and the person I’ve become? Huh?

I’ve managed to have a (somewhat) workable household. I have a job I enjoy. I pay my bills. I do my own taxes. I’m learning to use a sewing machine and to do basic household repairs. Sometime soon, I’m going to start learning to fight with a staff (which is something I’m really looking forward to). All this is stuff I never thought I could do.

My mother doesn’t know the intricacies of my life, but damn it, she knows I can budget and that I know how to work. Why can’t she congratulate me for those things, but can congratulate my brother for the things he’s “accomplished” and the person he’s “become”?

“Your money’s no good here” & tortured: dream doubleplay

A duo for you this time, folks.

In the first dream, I’m wandering a market, trying to sell something. I’d go to a stall, they’d buy whatever it was I was selling, and then I’d request something of theirs. They’d give it to me, but wouldn’t take my money. This happened over and over, at stall after stall. “Your money’s no good here,” they’d say. They were all smiling as they said it, and the overall atmosphere of the dream was good, but I was becoming frantic, running around trying to complete the transactions.

In the second dream, I was being tortured in this medieval torture chamber. I’d been on the rack, had my tongue held in a scold’s bridle, been sat in a witch’s chair. When the dream began, I was being whipped with a cat o’nine tails. The lashes were like fire cutting into my back, and it seemed like each time I screamed, the next lash would be more painful.

Though my back was turned toward whoever was wielding the cat, I could still somehow see that they were dressed completely in black, with a hood covering their face. I was tired and in pain, and wanted only to die so that the pain could stop. I knew somehow that I was waiting for the executioner.

Finally, I heard steps coming toward the room. The heavy wood door opened, and someone came in. During this time, the lashes had been coming steadily, each worse than the one before. But suddenly, the lashes stopped, and I was free.

I thought this odd; I was expecting the executioner to come in and finish me off quickly with little fuss. When I turned around, the person in the mask was being restrained by the executioner, and was being very loudly angry about it. There was screeching about how I needed to be punished, that without it I wouldn’t learn and do better, and ineffective struggles to get away.

The executioner shook the person in the mask and they quieted somewhat. “No more,” said the executioner (still calling them that because that’s what I thought).

Over yelps and protests, the executioner pulled the mask off.

It was my face.

I stared and my twin started spewing more invectives, only to be shaken yet again.

“Look deeper,” said the executioner, and pulled at my twin’s face. It came off like a mask and it was my mother standing there, still spewing abuse.

And I woke up.